(Art by Charles Blackman)

[Poem about the illusion of a good time]

Legs crossed, seated in this circle

I hear the audible silence

From people I barely even know

I feel their energy, their essence

The crooked smiles, glassy eyes 
We all, To each his fix

Faces different yet we’re stuck, all of us in this prison

It’s fun

Fun sold out to compromise

Debts owed to the future for the moment’s joy

Like chimneys the smoke fills the air 

Heart racing, head buzzing

Concentration far from some

It’s a game

And slowly the high starts to fade

The air becomes too cold 

And then the lies in their eyes becomes crystal

I see the the battles lost, the sadness deep

The want of trying to hide the pain

Most in cloaks of luxury

Others just better at mastering the art of it

Legs crossed seated in this circle

I hear the audible laughter and the trap music

But I open my eyes 

And there’s no one here!
Written 29 September 2015